A tough act to follow

He never honked his horn even if I still had my teeth to brush and my homework to gather and one of my gym shoes to track down. Frank Stucker, an English teacher and then the dean of boys at Kokomo High School, always had a smile on his face and warmth in his greeting when I would hop into the shotgun seat of his car at 6:25 every school day morning. All through my high school years, Frank was my early-morning ride. Longtime friends of my parents, Frank and Phyllis Stucker lived around the curve from us with their son, Ricke. When they moved into our neighborhood, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Ricke, two years older, became my running partner, and Phyllis, a grade school teacher like my mom, always was a hoot to be around. But it was Frank, with his gentle and caring ways, who had such an impact on me during my formative years. My parents always were great, but Frank may have filled in some of the cracks that all childhoods have in the nurturing process. I hope and pray that every kid out there has some guardian angel like Frank Stucker -- or Mr. Stucker to me in the high school hallways. Frank died on Saturday at the age of 79, a victim of the cruel disease Alzheimer's that robs even the best of people of their dignity and memories. But if Frank could no longer remember the people he boosted and built up over the years, they certainly remembered him. And, of course, I am one of those. He loved riding motorcycles to far-off places where he always made friends. He also loved tinkering with automobiles, and he never drove past anyone on the side of the road who had a thumb out or a hood up. More than once, Frank left his easy chair in the evening to help out me or my younger brother when our cars broke down. He would brave all kinds of weather to click a stopwatch for his son, Ricke, and me during our running workouts. He took me to sporting events all over the state. He could even make me forget sometimes what a scrawny, self-conscious kid I was. He also showed me how easy -- and enjoyable -- it could be to talk to a stranger. To this day, I am sure that a lot of my interviewing skills as a journalist come from watching Frank have lively conversations with others and and showing a genuine interest in their lives. Even in the early morning hours during our 15-minute drive to school, he always wanted to talk about sports and my studies and what else was on my mind while we listened to his country music and waited for his heater to warm up. And when my dad got sick with his cancer, he stepped up and did even more for me and my siblings. A family couldn't ask for a better friend than Frank Stucker. His wife, Phyllis, was always Phizz to him and she called him Finnegan in return. As a kid, I loved that a middle-aged couple had nicknames for each other -- and maybe that's why I have a history of handing them out, too. Frank also could whistle like nobody's business. My dad had the same knack. I could be a quarter-mile away and be able to tell if it was Frank or Dad telling me to head their way. Who would have needed cell phones back then with those kinds of in-network signals? Frank's family and friends buried him on Wednesday -- the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I guess there was some irony in that because Frank became a Marine after his high school graduation and served in the Pacific at the end of the war. And, yeah, he could act like a tough Marine when the situation warranted. But I would venture that even the kids he had to discipline or even kick out of school still respected and liked him. Nobody in their right mind could dislike Frank Stucker. And none of us who followed his example would ever be quite as kind or as virtuous as he was, either. But isn't it great that he made us want to try?Bill Moor's column appears on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Contact him at bmoor@sbtinfo.com, or write him at the South Bend Tribune, 225 W. Colfax Ave., South Bend, IN 46626; (574) 235-6072.